Sorry for the delay! It's been about a month since my last post. I am still on trail, and feeling great, albeit a little weary. The Sierra Nevada mountains pack quite a punch! The Sierras are over for me, but I will be posting with full updates about my time there shortly. Here's a little taster to start you off! This is my account of my summit of Mt.Whitney, one of my biggest goals of this entire trip. My camera died halfway through, so I didn't get many pictures, but I hope the super cheesy, overly dramatic description helps you see it through my eyes! Enjoy!
It's too dark to see when my watch beeps. I light it up, and the iridescent blue screen reads the hour: 2 AM. Ugh. I turn over in my sleeping bag, and a draft of ice cold air snakes its way in with me. Holy crap that's cold. Why did I set my alarm so early? Then I remember. Whitney.
The 3,000 foot climb to watch the sun rise from the top of the tallest peak in the lower 48 states SOUNDED like a good idea 6 hours ago. Not so much now that's it's dark and cold and the middle of the night. I try to muster the courage to leave the tent, a small safe haven of relative warmth.
After some mental effort, I reluctantly extracate myself from my warm down bag, unzip the door to the tent, and crawl out into the black. At first I can't see a thing. Then I look up and I see them. Stars. All of them. More than I've ever seen. There's no moon to distract from them, and more and more appear as my eyes adjust. I now see the sky isn't really dark at all, but speckled with fragmented light, thousands of light years away. It's spectacular. A few shooting stars streak across the sky. I can make out the curve of the lake below my campsite, and I notice the reflection of each celestial pin-prick in the glassy black surface. The sharp jagged cliffs that line the opposite side of the lake are distinguishable now against the starry night sky. I can see a few tiny quivering dots of light, hovering their way up the pitch black slab, which I assume are the headlamps of hikers who started their way up an hour or two ago. No hints of the coming day can be seen, no trace of the warming rays of morning on the horizon. I feel like I'm on another planet.
I leave the gear I don't need for the ascent in the tent and take only a little food, water, and some warm layers with me in my pack. Then I begin the climb. I round the lake and start up the switchbacks. I go very slow, taking breaks often. I'm starting out at more than 11,000 feet, and altitude sickness is no joke, as I remember it from Baden-Powell. But as I round the steep turns, I notice I'm having no trouble breathing, no nausea, no headaches. I feel fine. Every once in a while I look down. It's a steep dropoff below me. One wrong footing could send me careening downwards, and it's hard to judge how long I would fall through the dark, but I don't really want to know. As I approach the final switchback, I notice the sky is changing, becoming more of a deep, deep blue now than black. The black smattering of alpine lakes below are beginning to stand out from the lighter granite at the base of the cliff I'm standing on.
I reach the top of the ridgeline, still a mile or so from the summit, another 1,000 vertical feet up. I feel better than fine. This is going great. I feel strong. I pick my way carefully along the loose rock and scree. I'm grateful I have my trekking poles for balance. There's some ice, but not much. The valley behind me is brighter now, more visible. The contours of the mountains are severe and sharp, and contrast beautifully with the soft, heavy blues that color them. The sun is rising, and the tallest tips of the mountains to the west are tipped with pink and red now. The reds bloom and blossom as I follow the ridge, fading to orange and gold as they spread. I come around the western face of a rock spire, and suddenly I see her. Mt. Whitney's golden head arches forward like a watchful eagle, surveying the desert floor far below. Behind her, the sun's rays are casting her shadow onto the hazy clouds above the lower peaks, and I swear it looks like the spreading of great wings. I'm not sure if it was the altitude affecting my perceptions, or if it was just truly that dramatically awesome. Probably a little of both.
I arrive at the final climb. I've been dreaming of this moment for so many months, envisioning myself walking up this path into the sunlight. The tallest peak in the contiguous states. 14,500 feet. I had to walk almost 800 miles to get here. When I finally make it, when I'm standing there, higher than any other person in the contiguous states, I can hardly believe it. I'm the strongest I've ever been in my life, physically, mentally, emotionally. I feel so full of life at this moment. The sun lights up my eyes but doesn't blind me. The cold wind whips around me but doesn't chill me. I stay for a short while, take it all in. After a while, I start back down the mountain. I still have a long way to go from here.
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